


all that we had, well, ran away (with a will of its own)

by guti



Category: Club de Cuervos (TV)
Genre: Homophobic Language, Internalized Homophobia, M/M, Oral Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-09
Updated: 2016-10-09
Packaged: 2018-08-20 08:47:35
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,242
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8243413
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/guti/pseuds/guti
Summary: Potro stares at the photo for awhile, for a lot longer than he’s really comfortable with, and then, before he has the chance to actually think about it, he sends Aitor a DM.  are the paparazzi still outside your house dude?It’s not like Aitor’s actually gonna reply anyway, he’s got better shit to be doing.  Potro drops his phone on the mattress beside him and closes his eyes again, only to feel it buzz softly a few seconds later, signaling a new message.  It’s from Aitor.  Yeah finally.  I’m bored.  Wanna come over?





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [ourseparatedcities](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ourseparatedcities/gifts).



The ball makes a delicate swish as it hits the back of the net, and the sound is so fucking sweet, to Potro it may as well be like the voices of angels. The sun comes out from behind the clouds and a chorus of divine creatures descends, and he’s standing there on the practice field in utter disbelief. His dry spell is broken, the curse has been lifted, and reluctantly, he knows exactly who to thank.

He doesn’t say anything, obviously, because that would be stupid and fucked up, and it’s not like the words have been running around in his head all day or anything. It’s not like he’s already been borderline obsessed with Aitor for the entirety of the season. It’s not like he’s caught himself staring at him— and not in the way Tony stares at him either. It’s not like that at all. In all truth, the fact that Aitor said what he said— _‘Although, I’d sleep with the Argentine’_ — had absolutely nothing to do with Potro’s sudden ability to find the back of the net for the first time in forever. There’s no actual correlation between the two events, and Potro knows that. But that doesn't mean he isn't coming that conclusion anyway.

He’s lying in bed that night, lights out, eyes closed tight as he tries to keep his mind from going down that path at all, trying to void his mind of any and all memorized glimpses of Aitor Cardoné, trying to forget his flawless physique, chiseled abs, the perfect curve of his ass, forget his jawline, his cheekbones, forget the outline of his cock… He’s trying to forget all that and ignore that he’s got a semi for the first time in what feels like an eternity when his phone lights up on the bedside table and he’s pulled from his unwanted fantasies and back into the real world.

It’s nothing important, literally just some spam email he immediately deletes, but once his phone is in hand, he robotically starts checking his social media. It’s maddeningly dead, all things considered, and aside from a few tweets sent to him by some fans, there’s nothing worth paying attention to in any of it. But he scrolls through anyway and likes a few pics here and there, until he comes to a cross-posted Instagram pic from Aitor Cardoné. It’s a selfie taken in what must be his living room. He’s smoldering at the camera, reclined on his sofa. The lighting is terrible, but it’s clear he’s not wearing a shirt. He’s wishing everyone a good night. 

There’s really nothing particularly interesting about the tweet, except that it was posted ten minutes ago and has several thousand likes already, along with responses ranging from ‘grande! leyanda! buenas noches crack!’ to the lewd and outright derogatory rants of his more conservative followers. Potro stares at the photo for awhile, for a lot longer than he’s really comfortable with, and then, before he has the chance to actually think about it, he sends Aitor a DM.

`are the paparazzi still outside your house dude?`

Once he realizes what he’s done, he’s more than a little horrified. The message could certainly be taken as innocent. Absolutely. _Totally_. But then again… then again…

It’s not like Aitor’s actually gonna reply anyway. He’s got better shit to be doing, like resting up for the match, or masturbating or something. Which, come to think of it, doesn’t sound like a half bad idea—

No, wait no. Scratch that. 

Potro doesn’t want to think about Aitor getting off. That’ll only complicate things further and make it even _more_ difficult to sleep. So he drops his phone on the mattress beside him and closes his eyes again, only to feel it buzz softly a few seconds later, signaling a new message. It’s from Aitor.

` Yeah finally`

His heart is pounding. What the fuck is he supposed to say in response? Potro stares at his phone until another message suddenly appears.

`I’m bored. Wanna come over?`

Potro’s hands are fucking shaking as he types out his two-lettered reply:

`ok`

He’s about 99% sure Aitor’s gonna text back laughing at him or telling him he’s an idiot or something, because seriously, what the fuck. But instead, Aitor replies with his address and nothing more, and Potro is left sitting up in bed, frozen in shock, the the weight of reality hitting him like a ton of bricks.

He’s going to Aitor’s house. For a booty call. Maybe. Probably not. But maybe. Holy shit.

Potro pauses then, and rereads the address. It’s all the fucking way in Mexico City.

“What the fuck.” He growls, tempted to throw the phone across the room, against the wall. That’s two fucking hours away. Aitor can’t be fucking serious, wanting him to drive two hours outside of Nuevo Toledo, just so they can fool around!

… But what if he is serious? What if he’s serious and this is the only chance to hook up with him? Is he really in any position to say no, when this is the first time he’s even been able to get it up in months?

In all honesty, he’s never gotten dressed so quickly in his entire life, and he does so in such a haphazard way that when he catches a glimpse of his reflection in the mirror on the way out, he’s actually really impressed that he doesn't look like a complete disaster. His hair could be better though. He takes a few seconds to fluff and style it before remembering that Aitor’s seen him fresh out of the shower looking like a drowned rat, and Aitor’s seen him drenched in sweat and smelling terrible on the pitch, and Aitor _still_ said he’d sleep with him. So maybe his hair looking like shit won’t be a deal breaker at all.

Before he leaves he sends one last message to Aitor:

`omw…`

And naturally, Aitor sends a terse response:

`k`

He blares his radio the entire drive, and somehow, at this late/early hour, the traffic has evaporated and the freeway is empty and he makes it to Aitor’s place in about fifty minutes. He can hardly believe his luck.

Aitor’s place is nice— _way_ nicer than Potro’s, and his place isn’t a shithole or anything. It looks like something out of a music video, and Potro is instantly impressed. More so, he’s pleased to see that the journalists who’ve been camped outside ever since the sex scandal broke have dispersed into the night and aren’t lurking around trying to snap photos through Aitor’s windows. That’s a good sign, right? It seems like it must be a good sign.

Potro rings the doorbell and waits, glancing over his shoulders to make sure that he really is alone at the doorstep. The last thing he needs is his own photos splashed across the newspapers and gossip sites. That would sure spell the end of his chances of ever landing a potranca again, even though, he’s not _overly_ concerned by that prospect in that moment.

The door slowly opens and Aitor pokes his head out, looking around cautiously to check that the coast is clear before he sneaks out a hand and pulls Potro in by the wrist.

“What took you so long?” Aitor asks, shutting and locking the door behind them. 

Potro frowns as he watches him. “I live in Nuevo Toledo, dude. It’s like a two hour drive, you know.”

Aitor looks back at him, his gaze arresting him and holding him still until he shrugs and wanders away, down the hall to the living room. “Whatever.”

Potro is still frozen in place, watching helplessly as he floats away, finding his feet again a moment later. He follows him to the living room and is greeted by Aitor lounging on his back on his sofa, feet up so he’s taking up the entire thing, a mercurial sort of smirk on his face. Aitor gestures to the loveseat across from him. Potro takes a seat.

“So…” he says, trailing off.

Aitor looks at him and says nothing. He just _stares_.

Potro blinks a few times, suddenly feeling a little uncomfortable with his gaze. He clears his throat. “I like your house. It’s big, dude.”

Aitor nods and shifts in his seat. “Better than the shit you find in Nueva Toledo.”

“Haha,” Potro says awkwardly, hands on his knees. “Yeah.” 

Aitor sits up, swings his legs so that his feet are on the floor. He leans forward, then slowly unzips his sweatshirt, quite blatant about it, and without a doubt aware that he has Potro’s full attention. Their eyes meet for a second before Aitor stands and starts to walk away. “This whole country is shit. You know, I’m starting to think coming here was a big mistake.”

Potro can’t take his eyes off Aitor, watching intently as the other man pads barefoot across the room, over to the floor to ceiling bookcase, where he admires the assorted knickknacks on the shelves. It takes a full seven or eight seconds for Aitor’s words to fully register, for Potro to discern his meaning. “That’s not true. I mean, it’s not like Spain, I’m sure, but Mexico isn’t so bad.”

“The food is horrible. Or maybe it’s the water. All I know is I constantly have the runs, and it’s fucking disgusting.”

Potro winces.

“And the people here act like I’m some sort of abomination, like I’m unnatural.” Aitor pauses and picks up a small carved wooden horse. Potro can barely make out what he’s doing, thanks to the low mood lighting, but he pays close attention to the way Aitor’s sweatshirt falls over his shoulder, leaving it bare. “I mean, if they wanted to say I was _supernatural_ that would be one thing. I know what I am. I’m unbelievable. I get it. But I’m still a person. I still have feelings, you know.”

“Of course,” Potro says, eyes fixed on the curve of Aitor’s back.

Aitor shrugs and his sweatshirt sinks even lower, showing off more of his back and his bicep. He glances back at Potro, then sets the little horse back down. “What about you?”

“What about me?” Potro’s mouth is a little dry. He can’t help but lick his lips.

Aitor walks back over toward him, stopping just a few feet away from the loveseat. He has Potro’s full attention, and he totally knows it. “Do you think I’m an abomination? Nothing but a perverted pillow-biter? Are you like all those small-minded hicks who think I’m just some kind of fairy? Who think a man is somehow less of a man if he wants to fuck another man? Eh? What do you think? Why did you even come all this way anyway? Why are you here at my place in the middle of the night, when you know just as well as I do that your friends, _our teammates_ will say you’re a queer just for coming here. They say I’m gay, and that’s not even the truth of it, so imagine what they’d say about you. If _I’m_ a pansy, what will the papers say about the Argentine?” He pauses, snorting a little, his eyes burning in the dim light. “What? Can’t say anything, eh? _El Potro_.”

Potro’s on his feet, he doesn’t quite know how that happened, but he’s standing, he’s closed down the gap between them. Instead of feet, it’s inches, and as Aitor stands there, practically smoldering at him, Potro wages an internal battle with himself. He draws in a breath, hesitates, tears his eyes away, almost grabs Aitor’s hand, doesn’t.

“What’s your name again?” Aitor asks him, his voice gentler then than Potro ever recalls it.

“Diego.”

Aitor says something quiet. It could’ve been his name, but Potro doesn’t quite catch it. But he does catch Aitor’s mouth with his, and he does manage to get his arms around the other man. And Aitor has his arms around him too, pulling their bodies flush as they kiss and bite and already it’s a fight for dominance. Potro isn’t sure yet, but it might be the kind of fight he’d be okay with losing.

Aitor’s hand slips down the front of his jeans somehow, and Potro stops, hissing silently against Aitor’s mouth as fingers wrap around his already hardening cock. Aitor’s smile looks slightly sadistic from the close angle.

“Take off your pants.” 

Potro shifts away from him, his eyes huge, his mind running wild. Is this it? Is this the final threshold he’s about to cross? Is there no turning back? Is he henceforth and from now on a dude who fucks other dudes? 

“Don’t be shy now. You had no problems showing this off to me on day one.” Aitor reaches for his erection again. He seems somehow less teasing and more matter of fact about it. “Do you want me to suck you off or not?”

In all honesty, he’s never gotten undressed so quickly in his entire life. Pants off, dick out, and before he even has a chance to say anything more, Aitor’s on his knees with his mouth on him, giving him what has to be the best blow job of his life.

“Holy shit, dude.”

Aitor doesn’t speak. He doesn’t stop either, bless his heart, but he _does_ look up at Potro with the sort of look in his eyes that says he’s in complete control of this situation, that he knows exactly what he’s doing, that he likes doing what he’s doing. And just to prove that point, he opens his mouth extra wide and takes as much of Potro’s cock into his mouth as he can.

Potro gasps in ecstasy. He says something completely unintelligible, looking down in awe at Aitor, revering the man on his knees as one might revere some sort of sacred altar. 

“Holy shit, dude. Holy shit.”

Aitor looks up at him and rolls his eyes. Potro feels a slight wave of panic in him, like maybe he’s offended Aitor, like maybe Aitor’s gonna stop. So he tangles his fingers in Aitor’s hair, a wordless encouragement to stay there, don’t stop, keep going.

And Aitor does, for a little while anyway, toying with Potro and teasing him, doing tricks with his tongue that Potro’s never encountered before. Must be some fancy Catalan shit like they teach in Barcelona or something. Whatever it is and wherever he learned it hardly matters, it feels so fucking good.

But he wants more than a blowjob, and he’s pretty sure Aitor’s going to want him to reciprocate… not that he’s unwilling to try it, now they they’ve gone this far already. It’s just that he’s never fucked another dude before, and aside from Aitor, he’s never really wanted to. He wouldn't even know where to begin.

But Aitor knows, and before Potro realizes it, they’re making out again, this time in a bedroom, this time on a bed. Potro is on his back, his pants lost somewhere along the way and Aitor is on top of him. His pants (and sweatshirt) are gone too, and his cock is out and hard, and as they kiss, both of them thrust and grind against each other.

Potro reaches down between them, his fingers brushing against the head of Aitor’s cock. Aitor moans against his mouth, so Potro does it again, this time wrapping his hand around the shaft, tightening his grip slighting as Aitor bucks up into his grasp.

“I don’t want a hand job,” Aitor growls, pulling away unexpectedly. “If I wanted a hand job, I would’ve asked any of those photographers outside my house to get in here and do the trick.”

“Okay,” Potro, says, his cheeks burning all of a sudden. Why’s he being scolded? Did he do something wrong? _Fuck_ …

Somehow, Aitor is on his feet and rifling through a dresser drawer for something. “I said I’d fuck you, and you’re here, so I’m assuming I’m gonna fuck you.”

Potro doesn’t say anything at first. He’s utterly shellshocked, just watching in a mix of excitement and disbelief. This is it. This is what he came for. Aitor wants to fuck. Potro wants to fuck. So they’re gonna fuck. Aitor is gonna fuck him. Holy fuck.

He’s snapped back to reality when a bottle of lube hits him in the chest. Aitor is standing before him, practically leering, his cock hard and thick and already leaking with precum. “You still up for it or what, man? I mean, if you don’t want me to fuck you I’ll just jack off in the shower or something.”

“No,” Potro says, before he has the chance to chicken out, before he can listen to the part of him that’s still freaked out by his attraction to Aitor. “I want you to fuck me.”

The Spaniard raises his eyebrows and appears almost menacing. “I’m sorry, I couldn’t understand your accent. What did you say?”

Potro sits up fully and inches across the bed toward him, feeling emboldened from the tease. He reaches for Aitor’s dick, smearing the precum over the head, slicking it over his length. “I want your dick, dude. I want you to put it in my ass. I want you to fuck me.”

Aitor smiles, then without warning he pounces, pinning Potro down by the shoulders, their mouths meeting for another kiss.

Afterward, after they’re both done, after he’s come so hard he’s seeing stars, after Aitor’s opened him up and filled him and kissed him and bit him and left him bruised and begging for more, he dresses quickly and this time he doesn't bother with his hair at all. Aitor watches him from the bed with the same sort of vague interest that a cat has for people in its immediate vicinity. Potro doesn't take any offense. He figures it’s probably close to how he’s looked at every woman who’s left his house in the early morning hours after a night of frantic sex.

“See you at the stadium,” Potro says, pulling his shirt on over his head.

Aitor shrugs and nods. “Yeah. See you later.” He pauses and they make eye contact for a moment. “Diego.”

Potro stands there for a few seconds, looks Aitor over a few times, then leans back over and kisses his temple. He says nothing else after that. He just grabs his shoes and he leaves.

The drive home is awkward. Not because the night was awkward or anything, not because they part under negative circumstances. Oh no, it’s awkward because he’s worried he’s stayed too long and there’s the slight chance the paparazzi will be back at Aitor’s door by the time the sun comes up. But the sun hasn’t quite risen yet and there’s no one waiting outside to catch him on his walk of shame to his car. There’s no notifications on his phone either. There’s nothing waiting to signify that he’s missed anything at all in the hour or so he’s been in Aitor’s home. 

And that’s good, that’s all he could’ve hoped for really. Because now that he can get hard again, he has to focus on the game. One last chance to avoid relegation, one last shot at avoid obscurity. And he’s ready. Potro has never been more ready in his life. And with Aitor by his side, he’s pretty sure he can face down anything.

**Author's Note:**

> \- aitor doesn't play in the last game of the season, alas... so they don't get to say goodbye :(  
> \- i rewatched the show twice in the last month and i rewrote this fic like six times and i'm finally semi-satisfied with it & i hope hope hope hope you like it!  
> \- the title is from [this](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=uwGwzKbd9CI) song which is all about horses and metaphors between riding and sex/love... it seems appropriate?  
> \- i am dying for more fic of these two so everyone else please help a sister out and write more so i don't have to?  
> \- season 2 is supposedly out in november!!! yay!!!


End file.
